


Waking Up Paulie in Lockdown

by waveofahand



Series: Dating Paul McCartney [7]
Category: Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Bad Virus, Dating Paul McCartney, Domestic Fluff, F/M, He writes a bad and oblivious song, M/M, Paul discovers he is now in quarantine, Paul wakes up on your couch, Paul's drunk, Paul's oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: Paul, just arrived back in the country, and drunk and oblivious has demanded to be delivered to your door at 3AM. He doesn't realize he's going to be there for a while.
Relationships: Paul McCartney/You
Series: Dating Paul McCartney [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646920
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Waking Up Paulie in Lockdown

****

**London, 1963, Wee Small Hours**

You are pulling on a robe, stumbling sleepily to answer your door because the knocking is loud, and you have neighbors. And it’s 3AM.

“Here, this is yours,” George says as Paul stumbles out of his arms and into yours, smelling strongly of scotch.

“Hi, Baby!” Paul sings out. “You look so nice in that fluffy robe, can I touch it?”

He’s petting your robe. To be fair, it is very soft and fluffy.

George snorts and tosses Paul’s luggage into your hallway. “Right then, he’s all set.”

“Wait!” You reach for George’s arm. “What is this? Why did you bring him here when he’s all drunk like this?”

Paul, quite uncharacteristically, giggles. He flashes you a big grin and nearly knocks you over as he flings himself at you and buries his face in your neck. “We had a party!” He announces. “And I won you!”

“We didn’t have a party,” George shakes his head. “Just a long delay before a shaky plane ride, and I can’t believe he hasn’t already puked. We just got in, didn’t we? He demanded the car stop here, so he’s _yours_ now. I’m goin’ home.”

“Bye-bye, Georgie, love,” Paul waves, his face still planted in your neck. “You smell nice. You, you know. _You_. Not George. He smells like steel strings and diesel.”

“Alllllright,” you say in an understanding caretaker’s voice as you try to extricate from Paul’s grasp. He’s definitely getting heavy. “Let’s get you situated, shall we? Come sit on the couch.”

“Let’s go to bed!" He's happily yelling.

“Shush, people are sleeping! And you’re not getting near my bed. I’ve seen your face that color before, and so we’ll just get you comfy on the couch and place a nice basin near you, yeah?”

“I’m not tired, though. Did you miss me?” He’s kissing up and down your neck and sounding like a child. “You haven’t missed me! I missed you, lovie…”

Paul is resisting being moved. He’s standing still, arms all around you, and now he’s planting kisses on your face.

“Of course, I missed you, you beautiful idiot. I missed you every day.”

“But you’re not saying it!”

“Oh, stop whining, I just said it.”

He pulls away, looking pouty. “But I had to make you say it…”

“Yeah, I’m half awake and you are…” You stop to laugh because he’s kissing you again and he’s being very cute. “You are so, so drunk, sweetie. And yes, I missed you. Now, come on, let’s get you some water and an aspirin.”

He stumbles after you, barely managing to grasp your hand. “Okay, but I don’t need aspirin! I’m fine.”

“You’ll thank me in the morning, if you keep it down.”

“ _You_ keep it down, love, I’m being ve-very quiet. An’ why do you keep,” Paul burps delicately, “why do you keep imp-implying I’m going to toss me beans?”

“History, honey. You have a history. My sheets and you have a history. One wall and you have a history. That’s why you’re sleeping on the couch.”

He’s frowning at you. “But I don’t feel that way, now. And I don’t want to sleep on the – on the conch. I don’t like it.”

You have perfected the consoling tone: “That’s alright, baby, I won’t make you sleep on the conch, okay? You can sleep on the couch instead, yeah?”

He sways and smiles, “Okay!” Looks around the kitchen. “Oh, this is the kitchen! Can we have tea? And biscuits?”

“It’s not really time for tea, just yet.” You hand him water and two aspirin. “Take that down, now.”

He stares for a long time at the pills in his hand. “You know, if this were Alish (burp) Alish in Wonderland, one of these – (hiccup) one of these would make me grow bigger, and one smaller.”

You start to say something, rethink it. “These will just make you feel _better_ in the morning. Then you can be bigger or smaller – or bigger _and_ _then_ smaller – all on purpose, okay?”

He’s back at your neck again. Glass in one hand, pills in another. _“Mushy mushy…”_

“You’re gonna spill that, come on, now,” you wriggle away. “Take those, okay?”

“Put ‘em in me mouf!”

“Wha’” you gurgle at him despite yourself. “No, stop.”

“Put ‘em in me mouf, yeah?” He’s wiggling his tongue at you.

“You are such a weirdo. Okay, anything to get these down your throat.”

“Hey, I can throat.”

“You can _what_ now?” You slip both pills between his lips. He goes after your fingers, catching them between his lips. He smiles as well as he can for a guy who is biting your fingers.

“You can’t drink water with my fingers in your mouth.”

He releases your fingers, swallows hugely. “See? I can throat ‘em without water.”

You’re laughing again. “Oh, is _that_ what you meant? I wasn’t sure! Good, er… _throating_ , hon.”

He’s nodding, quite proud of himself. “I know!”

“Drink the water, though, because you’re dehydrated and you stink of scotch.”

“And then you’ll kiss me, right? Right.”

“Sure, then I’ll kiss you.”

He drinks the water while looking over the glass at you, holding your eye and not looking away. You can hear him breathing into the glass like a five year-old.

He’s still drinking. Still staring at you. Still breathing. He clearly thinks this is hilarious. You take the glass from his hand.

“C’mon, Paul, I want to go back to sleep!”

He’s smiling at you, slipping his hands to your waist as he starts walking you backwards. “Gotta kiss me first.”

“Oh, yeah, what if I don’t?”

“You’re a terrible flirt you know.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who barged in at three in the morning.” You feel the counter at your hips. He doesn’t stop pressing forward.

“Aw, _hadda_ , though, you know. Hadda kiss ya.”

“You _hadda_ , eh?”

“Gotta.”

“Who _are_ you? _Hadda? Gotta?_ Is this the same Paul McCartney [who corrects me every time I drop a ‘g’?”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834954)

“Mmm, I’m so oiled you could drop anything you want right now, my sweet, and everything would be slippy. Your robe, your little pants…why are you wearing such little pants? You should take those off; they’re too little.”

He’s pretty convincing for a really drunk guy, and you feel yourself responding as he kisses you, wrapping your arms around him, even as you're holding that glass. You kiss him back and he groans, clutching your waist more closely.

Then he wobbles. He stops kissing you, pulls away and frowns.

“Oh, no…there’s that face!”

“Aspirin doesn’t make you sick does it?”

“No, Paul. Drinking a bottle of scotch makes you sick.”

“Oh. Yeah. [The room is _spinny…”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20449868)

“Oh, for the love of –” You sigh. “Come on, big boy!” You manage to shove him over the sink just in time and all the romance falls apart on the first retch. You turn on the faucet, with one hand and rub his back with the other while the poor guy lets loose.

“Sorry!” He yells sweetly between all the blurching.

“It’s alright, babe, been there, done that. You’ve done all this for me.” 

Because yeah, there was that one night where you’d had way too many sweet drinks that came with little umbrellas on, and – all your inhibitions unleashed – you came thisclose to saying those three little words you know you daren’t. But you were so turned on, and so drunk on him, and so pissed on fruity rum sugars that you felt daring. You’d turned to him, and he was beautiful, and suddenly the choices were to either say ‘I love you’ or vomit all over his favorite tie, and…

And you didn’t say ‘I love you’.

Now, you’re continuing to rub little circles on his back while he ducks and starts washing his mouth out under the faucet which, again, been there, done that.

You hand him a towel. “Feel better?”

“Aye.” He looks embarrassed. “Sorry, love.”

“It’s alright, sweetie, let’s get you set on the couch, okay? I’ll get you some sheets, yeah, love?”

“Okay,” he lets himself be led, plopping down heavily and leaning over to untie his shoes. You can’t help noticing that he keeps missing the laces, reaching too far to the left, where his other feet must be, so you kneel down to help. “Like this, baby…”

Shoes off, Paul stands up, with a groan, wavering like a sapling in the wind, to undo his trousers. A good time, you think, to get the sheets because he’s not going to last much longer…

And yeah, by the time you get back, he’s gone. Passed out in the corner, pants off, jacket on. You really should be mad. But he really is an adorable idiot with that plummy mouth open as he snores gently.

You raise his naked, furry legs up onto the couch and cover him with a blanket. You make a point of folding his trousers – carefully, just along the crease, as he would -- because he’ll be upset in the morning if they’re all wrinkled.

**10:30 AM**

You’ve had a busy morning, and are actually kind of happy for the change in your routine. Everything in Paul’s luggage has already been washed and folded and now you’re just sitting on the other end of the couch, watching him sleep while sipping some tea. He stirs and groans, and stirs again, and you amuse yourself by watching his eyelashes flutter as he winces against the light.

His eyes open a little, then snap shut. “Ohhh…”

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“No.”

“Yes. Time to wakie, wakie! You want some brekkie?”

“Ohhh…”

“Hm, I’ll take that for a ‘no’.”

“Let me die in peace, please.”

“Idiot.”

“I know…”

He dozes off again, and you let him because you are kind. An hour later, he tries again and does better. You’re back in your spot with a fresh cup of tea, reading a book. You can feel his eyes on you, and when you look over, he’s more himself, snuggled on his side and looking at you with something approaching a smile on his lips. “Hi, baby…”

“Well, good morning to you, JP!” You’ve rarely sounded so cheerfully loud.

He winces, but opens his eyes again. “I’m going to try to receive that well.”

“That’s my brave boy!”

He glances at your cup with a vaguely hopeful expression. “Is that tea?”

“Yes.”

“Is it for me?”

“No, sweetstuff, it’s for me. But…” You lean over to the tea set, fixing him a cup of his own, just the way he likes it. “This is yours, then.”

He reaches for it with a shaky hand, gives up. “I can’t.”

“Oh. That’s too bad, love. I can’t exactly help you with hot tea.”

“Why am I here?” He is still not moving his head.

You decide to massage the truth a little, not telling him that he’d been banned from your bed. “You fell asleep here, after you took off your pants.”

“Oh. Did I have fun, at least? Did _you?”_

“No, hon. Opposite.”

“Oh. Is that why my mouth feels like a cesspool?”

Taking pity on him, you put down your own cup, take his and feed him a bit of tea, from a spoon. He sips gratefully and accepts your chastising expression. You spoon him another.

“Mmm, you’re so good to me, baby. You make my tea just right.”

“And then _feed it to you_ by the spoonful because you’re _spoiled_.”

“I can’t move my head, though, so I’m not spoiled, I’m…” He sighs and it’s so sad you can’t laugh too loudly at him. “I’m very hungover.”

“I know, sweetie, you are,” you say as you sympathetically stroke his hair.

“How did I get here?”

“George threw you at me. You said you won me at a party. He said there was no party. And then threw your luggage at us and went away.”

“Mmm. That sounds right. All my dirty clothes.”

“Oh, they’re clean now! I washed them for you. All neatly folded, too.”

“Really? You’re so good to me. Thank you, lovie.”

“Well, you’re welcome. Thought you’d need them. I’m not sure what we’ll do about the jacket you slept in, though,” you say as he sips more tea from your spoon. “Maybe the wrinkles will fall out on the hanger.”

“No, we’ll just drop it by the cleaner’s yeah? We’ll go out and have a nice meal,” he winces, “maybe in a couple hours, when my head re-attaches to my body. And we’ll drop it off then?”

“Oh, no…no, sweetie, I’m afraid we won’t.”

He reaches up, brushes your hair off your forehead. “Why not? I want to take my baby somewhere nice, show off what I won.”

“Aw, that sounds so perfect, Paulie. I’d be so proud to be seen with you.”

“Well good,” he sips more tea and then kisses your spoon. “That’s settled, then.”  
  
“Yes, let’s make plans to do that in a couple weeks, or whenever we can.”

He gives you an adorable, quizzical look, even though his head remains firmly in place. “A few _weeks_?”

“Yes, you know, after your quarantine is lifted. And the whole lockdown ends...”

“My _what_ , now? Whole _what_ , now?”

You move closer, making the couch shake a little, which elicits a groan him. “You didn’t hear the news last night, did you?”

He gives a sickly smile. “All I heard last night was the sound of liquid pouring from a bottle…”

“Ah, well… you should keep up, honey. We’ve been put under lockdown. You’ve just come back, so you and the band, you’re all under a two-week quarantine.”

Paul’s eyes grow wide. “A quarantine? Here? I’m here for two weeks? No lads, no studio?”

“Nope.”

“No rehearsal? No writing with John?”

“’Fraid not, Pet. It’s the rules.”

“Oh.” He lets that sink in. Smiles at you after a moment. “That’s not a bad thing, you know. Could use a holiday with you. Of sorts…”

“Well, maybe one thing good comes out of a bad virus, then.”

“ _Bad Virus_. Isn’t that the name of a song? It should be…” He starts to muse.

> _“Oh I’ve bit hit with a bad virus_
> 
> _Baby gave it to every one of us.”_

He starts to form a melody, head still plastered to the couch.

> _“I’m on my knees darlin’, saying please now, darlin’_
> 
> _can’t you leave without a fuss?”_

“You’re a sick genius,” you marvel.

> _"Yeah, I’m screamin’ every time I’m peein’_
> 
> _cause you’ve given me the bad virus…”_

“Okay, _no!_ Just no. I was wrong. You’re not a genius, you're just a Liverpool scuff with lingering Hamburg-itis. And that’s not funny, you know. This thing is scary.”

“I’m sorry, love,” he says, and he sort of seems to mean it, in his oblivious way. “Am I _really_ here with you for two weeks, then,” he smiles.

“ _Mmhmmm_. Why do you think I’m not at [my crappy job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281228) today? Just because I love—” you catch yourself in time. “Just because I love dealing with hungover drunks in a suit jacket and French cuffs?”

> _“I’m a Liverpool Scuff wearing big French cuffs_
> 
> _But I’m not lonely with this bad virus…”_

“Ugh. You’re a machine.”

“I have so many working parts, too, baby…”

“Ha! Not this morning you don’t.”

He pulls you over and gives you a big kiss with a mouth that tastes like dragon fire, plowed manure, and five flavors of death.

Somehow you don’t mind.

It’s a bad virus, it’s true. But as he’s kissing you, and as you decide to fall into it, you are writing your own song.

> _Well you taste so bad but you kiss so good_
> 
> _So, Paulie, kiss me like you know you should_
> 
> _Two weeks all alone with me_
> 
> _Sipping from my little spoons of tea…_
> 
> _and me, and me…_
> 
> _whee… whee… whee…_

You close your eyes and hope… _Really though, everyone stay safe and healthy!_


End file.
